


Stranger In Rohan

by StarsOverTheEast



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 17:35:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsOverTheEast/pseuds/StarsOverTheEast
Summary: As the Forth Age dawns and the elves fade from Middle Earth, Finrod travels back across the sea to witness the start of the Age of Men. Not in Gondor, no, but in the Kingdom of Rohan.





	Stranger In Rohan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hindue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hindue/gifts).



> Written as a birthday gift for a dear friend.

It seemed as though the blue water beneath him stretched on unending in all directions. 

Whether it only seemed so due to his own impatience or was a result of the hiding of the Blessed Realm Finrod did not know although he suspected the former. At his side one of Ulmo’s maiar (his hand resting over the side of the boat, one finger moving in a circle) grinned at him.

“Restless?”

“Excited.”

“We draw closer,” the maia said, his eyes gazing ahead to a shore Finrod could not yet see. “You will be upon the shore soon.”

The sail of the small boat rippled in the wind and Finrod glanced up as another maia descended.

“Is it odd,” she said, her wings of white fading into a thin shawl that blew upon her arms, “to return? Lord Manwë has granted you a boon beyond thought. That one of the Eldar should return again to Middle Earth? It is a thing most strange.”

“A thing most strange it may be,” Finrod began, “but it is a trip I make under happier circumstances than the first.”

A trip that he had long desired. He had not fully expected the Valar to grant his heart’s desire when he had asked. Indeed that they would allow one (perhaps rather foolish in their eyes) elf to travel back across the sea when so many were finally returning home had become quite the wonder in Valinor. 

“Do not wonder so brother,” Galadriel had told him before they had parted. “Greater power may have say in your desire and the relenting of the Lords and Ladies of the Blessed Realm.”

Finrod rested his arms upon the side of the boat, straining his eyes for the first glimpse. They would land at the Grey Havens, among elves whose hearts were set on the far shore. A brief rest would follow, and a look about the elvish ruins of ages past that had played out long after his first arrival. A visit to the other elvish lands would follow; Rivendell and his own sister’s realm and the newly cleansed Eryn Lasgalen as well. He had heard it told that such elves that lived were not ready to depart. 

But his true desire was upon the land of men. 

“As you were among the first of the elder children to discover the second, so shall you be among the last to see them. They are come into an age of their own and the time of the elves has ended,” 

So had been the words of Mandos upon their approval. The age of men! How quickly they had come into their own! 

Ever had news of their affairs came to the ears of Finrod in Valinor. From the elves arriving upon the shore and the maiar who often stole away to visit their more adventure seeking brothers and sisters. He had heard of the three families of men, their successes and failures. Of those who had fought against the dark power and been given a land of plenty as their own. He had listened in sorrow to the tale of their falling and then with joy to their rebirth upon other shores. 

“Gondor is not in glory alike to that of older days,” Elrond had told him as Finrod had poured over the multitude of maps. “But King Elessar may well restore it. You would be wise to visit and I have little doubt the king and queen would welcome you.”

But it was another land that had caught Finrod’s attention as of late while studying his route. That of Rohan, the country of those they called the Horse Lords. A wide land of rolling plains and men who, to hear the tales, had played no small part in the war against the second Dark Lord. Indeed he had even heard of a woman of their people, who had slain with the help of a hobbit (another curiosity Finrod much desired to see at some point) one of the cursed men of Sauron. 

“In them you may find companions much the same as those of long ago,” Olórin had told him. “They delight in their land and its horses who are descended from those bought long ago from over the sea. They oft tell stories by the campfire and sing songs of older days and myths that long have faded from other lands.”

How quickly, he wondered, could he slip off to that land? This was to be a trip of discovery and gentle exploration, surely he would not be held anywhere longer than his own choosing. 

Closing his eyes Finrod rested his head in his hands with a daydream of men about campfires and his fingers on harp strings playing behind his lids. 

-

And opened them as the wind rushed across the plain of Rohan to meet him.

“Ah Larcatál,” he said, patting his horse upon the neck. “Have we lost ourselves in this land?”

If the horse had any doubt in Finrod’s navigational abilities he did not make them known. Nor did the two horses at Finrod’s back; each of them having taken to the short, green grass at their feet while their master sat in silent contemplation. 

“The house of the king should not be far,” Finrod mused to himself, turning about as he gazed over the long row of long grass. “I would explore the land further and see the people of this country but it is only fitting we introduce ourselves to him before setting foot elsewhere. I do not wish to be seen as a spy come unto his land and sneaking about!”

Larcatál tossed his head suddenly and Finrod cast his gaze to the south. The sound of hooves and a horse’s voice were upon the wind and heading in their direction.

Raising himself up in the saddle, Finrod watched as the form of a large grey horse drew near and the features of its rider came into view. That of a tall man, with blond hair and searching eyes. If not for the lack of amour and only a small sword at his side Finrod would have believed he could be riding to war, so was his manner and pride. 

Slipping from his horse Finrod stepped forward, raising his hand and giving a loud shout to hail the approaching stranger. At once the rider wheeled about, a look of caution and surprise slipping over his face, and his horse took a direct path towards the elf. 

“Hail stranger,” he called, coming to a stop in flurry of dust under his horse’s hooves. “Are you lost?”

Finrod laughed, pushing back the unruly strands of his hair. 

“Perhaps,” he replied. “Or possibly my destination is nearer at hand that I had thought.”

The man seemed to be on the verge of his own reply when his eyes suddenly darted to Finrod’s ears.

“You are an elf!” he cried, seemly taken aback. “I had thought they all sailed away upon boats or retreated to the far, beautiful corners of the world.”

“Indeed, many did sail. But I have come in an opposite direction.”

A moment of silence hung between them then, as though the man were trying to judge whether or not the elf before him was mere illusion. At last he spoke.

“Another wonder, and just when I had begun to think such things had passed,” he said, shaking his head. “If you will give me your name elf and where you come from, I shall give you mine. Elves are not wholly unknown to me and I should like to know from which far corner you have crept from.”

“I am named Finrod in these lands,” the elf answered. “Felagund and Nóm as well. From far wood have I come, one across the sea and one beneath it.”

The rider frowned and Finrod held back a chuckle as he puzzled over the reply.

“You are a true elf,” the man mumbled at last. “Given to riddles and many names as I have often heard of your kind. But as for me I am named Éomer, son of Éomund, and Lord of the Mark. It is to my lands you have come and I would welcome you as a friend in these days after the victory.”

So he had guessed right! Though it had not been such a hard guess given the man’s fine clothes and emblems and the detailed description he had been given of the man. Still, thought Finrod, a spot of luck to come across him upon the plains.

“So my destination has come to me,” Finrod said. “For it is to your house I was coming before I set foot in the rest of your fair land. A guest should not seek to explore every room and secret of a house before introducing himself after all.”

“You have more luck than you guess elf. Proud Edoras and golden Meduseld are not far from here and it was to them I was returning. Will you join me?”

Without waiting for an answer Éomer nudged his horse, turning him in the direction of the city. Finrod sprang onto Larcatál, who seemed to have perked up at the prospect of food and rest, and without another word raced after his new friend. 

-

It was certainly something, this golden hall of the king. 

At least Finrod could not help but think so as he walked slowly past the tapestries with his hands clasped behind his back and a smile on his face as he listened to the whispers of the men and women behind him. 

Éomer had vanished upon leading him to the great hall and ensuring that his horses would be well taken care of and his bags removed to a place of rest befitting of such an visitor.

Not that Finrod cared so much. It was rather well to be the visitor and be left to look upon the decoration instead of the prince away to business and with care. 

Stopping in front a large tapestry Finrod gazed up, marveling at the color. A battle scene was depicted there in strands of heroic white, somber grey, and the lively blue of a rushing water. A group of men defeated and pushed back across a river as before them stood heroes upon horseback with their spears raise towards the sun and sky. 

Another one, of two massive beasts -- oliphaunts, were they called? -- reared over two men in armour with defiant stances. Their shields proudly bearing the mark of their people and their weapons posed against a wave of opposition. 

A proud people, thought Finrod as he ran his finger over the fine thread, not a group to flee from battle and overwhelming odds. 

A sound of footsteps slapping against the floor drew his attention and as Finrod gazed up a small boy darted from around a corner and into view. Seeing a stranger in his home he let out a small cry, stopping still in his tracks  
“Ah,” said Finrod, kneeling with his hand outstretched. “You have naught to fear, my friend.”

The child seemed to consider the elf for a second, his face pale and hands trembling before the reassuring smile of the stranger sent him stumbling forward into Finrod’s now outstretched and waiting arms. 

Settling into a nearby chair Finrod placed the child on his lap, nodding at him.

“And what is your name?”

“Me?”

Finrod laughed, willing his voice into illusion, that of a horse rising from white mist about his fingertips. Immediately the child shrieked, grabbing at his hand in an attempt to touch the animal he, no doubt, recognized. 

The children of men were so much different than those of his own people and though it had been long since he had last seen one Finrod found himself falling into old habits. Creatures and people of white smoke unfolded, carefully obstructed from the rest of the crowd, and the boy babbled in a mixture of words and gibberish as he waved his small arms. 

His own people’s children grew so fast, quickly mastering their bodies and speech before scarcely two years had passed. Too often he felt this had been to their harm in Middle Earth. They had been quick to understand and know the name of the enemy and the woes of their people where the children of men had been sometimes spared their innocence. Even in fair Valinor where songs were sung and children played in the gardens of Lórien they knew well their history. 

“My husband told me we had an elf under our roof,” came a voice. “I see my son has found you first.”

Finrod dipped his head in greeting to the woman cautiously stepping towards him as though in fear he might prove to be an illusion and vanish. Bouncing the child on his knee, Finrod closed his hand around the last sheep, sending the boy into a round of claps of his hand. Quick enough to hide it from view from a passing servant, but not from Éomer who had appeared at his wife’s side. 

“Smoke and mirrors,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “If I did not know better I would think it a wizard and not a witch who use to hail within the Golden Wood.”

“You perhaps do not guess so close from the mark, friend. Your ‘witch’ is my sister.”

“Sister?”

Finrod chuckled, standing and offering the child in his arms to its mother. Happily, and with a fist of strands of the elf’s golden hair, he passed into her arms, still babbling in his own strange language. 

“You are not far from home then,” Éomer questioned, leading the small party towards a waiting table of food. “I had heard the Lady departed from the woods and some of her people but their Lord stayed on for a time. Is it from there you have come? You spoke as though different.”

“Indeed I did,” Finrod replied, seating himself though making no move yet for food. “For it is not from fair Lothlórien I have come or dwelt. Never did I live there, I am afraid though my sister tells me it was a land of beauty unrivaled. Although I feel perhaps her own pride may factor into that naming such.”

Passing his wife her cup, and shaking his head at the elf’s answer, Éomer gestured at the woman. 

“Finrod, elf of many names, I would be pleased to introduce you to my wife and the Queen of the Mark, fair Lothíriel. And to our son and the prince of his people, Elfwine.”

“Me!” Elfwine pipped up as Lothíriel placed him into his chair. 

Courtesies exchanged, manners remembered, and food served, Finrod turned his attention to the plate before him and -

“What brings you to Rohan?”

Lothíriel was staring at him from across the table, her spoon lying motionless and unused by her side. Clearly the curiosity bubbling within could not be contained.

“Curiosity,” replied Finrod, pushing aside his own food. “I have heard tales of your people and wished to see them and their lands for myself.”

“Where do you come from? Across the sea?”

“Yes.”

Éomer slipped a glance at his wife from over the rim of his mug as she leaned forward, her food all but forgotten in the presence of an elf. Finrod couldn’t help but smile. Like old times, really. 

“I have heard that elves do not come back from across the sea, that they have sailed never to return. How came you?”

“Once,” began Finrod, “I dwelt here, in a land now long forgotten. Your father’s father’s ancestors I met and spoke with. They were friends and surely you cannot blame me for wishing to check in upon friends?”

“Ancestors? You speak as though you saw the dawning of men,” said Éomer, his knife hesitating over his food.

The servants about them were now moving slowly, taking their time in tasks that beforehand would have would have consumed only seconds. The rest of the hall, both diners at their own tables and entertainment alike had grew to a soft dim of noise. That every ear was turned upon him Finrod was well aware. 

“I did indeed,” he answered. “Your people remind me much of them, from what I have seen and heard.”

“You look so young,” Lothíriel breathed. “Truly the youth of the elves is lasting.”

“In body perhaps,” Finrod laughed. 

The next hour or so passed pleasantly. Questions asked, and answers given and the food on their plates growing cold as their mouths filled with words. Ever closer did the crowd of the room draw near, their own business forgotten as the voice of the elf seemed to be fairer to their ears than music or their own chatter. Even Éomer, who had at first taken interest in the meal, now sat in attention to every word the elf spoke.

“Ah,” said Finrod finally, drawing himself back from the table. “But your questions are many and the sun sinks to take her rest. I would not keep you from your tasks.”

At his words the spell upon the hall seemed to break and the people about quickly began to busy themselves with items near at hand in an attempt to appear busy. Éomer and Lothíriel, who had both found themselves leaning forward across the table, suddenly straightened up. 

“Yes of course,” Lothíriel said, picking up Elfwine who had all but fallen asleep to the elf’s voice. “I must take this one to bed. It has been a pleasure and an honor to hear you speak, friend elf.”

Quickly mirroring her movements, Éomer rose to his feet, nodding.

“I have business of my own to consider but I would show you to your room, my friend,” he said.

Rising to his feet to follow Finrod gave a small pat to Elfwine’s head as the child waved at him. 

It was only when they had drawn themselves down the hall and away from many ears, and Finrod was beginning to wonder if the king had lost his voice, did Éomer speak again.

“Never before has anyone heard such attention in the hall save for the king and the wizard Gandalf,” he said. “The old stories say the elves spend nets to catch their victims and hold them among the forest. They failed to mention that it was with their voices the nets were wove however.”

Finrod laughed.

In his mind’s eye he could see another group of men. Huddled about the fire with curiosity in their eyes, questions on their lips, and a new found joy in their heart. How long had he played for them? How long had he sat by their side while they sought to understand one another with points to rocks and fire and their own faces?

“I am glad I could allow your minstrels a break,” he teased as they halted by a door. “Though perhaps tomorrow night they could tell some tales of their own?” 

“I will ask,” Éomer replied. “I have no fear they will say no, only save for their own longing to hear you again. But I will leave you in rest. Tomorrow I will take my walk about the town and if you are as curious as you say I would give you leave to come with me.”

“I will come.”

“Then it is decided.”

Giving Finrod a final nod Éomer disappeared down the hall and Finrod slipped back into the provided room. A cozy enough spot though his bags seemed to have been rather ruffled. Glancing around Finrod raised an eyebrow as horse after horse caught his eye. A statue upon the bookcase, one carved into the bed, another racing upon the rug. Even in the halls of Oromë, the father of the beasts, they were not so many. 

Falling back onto the bed Finrod smiled to himself, wondering what the coming day would bring. 

-

The next day dawned bright with the sun climbing high in the sky and the plains bathed in light showcasing their beauty. 

And Finrod saw none of it. 

It had started well enough. Éomer had appeared at his door early and Finrod had moved about the hall while the men had taken their breakfast, catching brief bits of news and delighting in the small children that seemed to gather ever at his feet. 

They had departed outside then, down the steps and into the early crowd. 

“I walk often,” Éomer had told him. “It does my heart good to see them recovering and growing after the war and the trials that laid on us for so long.”

“It does them well also,” Finrod had replied, taking note of the bows and curtsy as they had passed.  
And the curious looks he had received. 

They had gathered slowly at first. A woman here, a man there, all with some task that took them in the direction of the elf and king and within range to ask a question or two. Word had spread quickly that an elf walked among town and as more people rose and came outside the little streets became flocked with people all out and with intention to see the stranger. 

Now, now it was becoming quite a mob. 

“Is your hair really made of gold?” the woman at his side was saying, her hand moving back and forth towards him. “I have heard that elves spin gold into their hair from youth and that it practically becomes such.”

“Did you come from the Golden Woods?” cried another. 

“Have you been to Gondor? Are you related to the Queen?”

“They are usually not so fond,” Éomer whispered into his ear as he lead Finrod towards a small bank and away from the throng of people. “One would think you were Eorl come back from the dead for the way they swarm about you.”

“I am told,” Finrod said, gently patting a child at his knee on the head. “That they often swarmed my niece as such in her early days in Gondor. A pity I do not have her grace or beauty.”

Éomer turned his head, looking at a small group of young women with pink faces and shy eyes. 

“Depends on who you ask I suppose.”

Cupping his hands around his mouth Éomer stepped back onto the climb and shouted.

“People of the Mark! Have we forgotten our manners and kindness towards guests?”

FInrod shook his head, laying his hand on Éomer’s arm. 

“Don’t,” he said, looking out over the crowd. “They wish to learn of me and I of them. Let it be an equal trade.”

He stepped up beside Éomer, raising his hand and began to speak with such a voice as that he had long ago in Nargothrond.

“Hail,” he began, sweeping his arm towards the crowd in the gesture of the elves. “You all seem as curious about me as I am about you. Perhaps then we can come to an agreement? I shall answer a question and then one of you may.”

“Finrod,” whispered Éomer. “Are you - “

“My name,” began the elf. “Is Finrod, called Felagund, called Nóm. Master of Caves, Lord of Nargothrond, Friend of Men. And what shall I call you?”

The crowd suddenly grew silent, as a class of children whose teacher has posed a challenging question. Finally one of the younger men spoke. 

“Rohirrim, horse lords they call us. Eorlingas we name ourselves. After Eorl the Young who upon his horse bought us into these lands.”

Finrod smiled.

“My ancestors were born upon shore of the water, under the stars. They came to their land, my home through much travel and passing through many lands.”

“Our father’s father’s hailed from the vales of the great river,” a woman popped in. “From there we came to this land, given to them by Gondor as reward for battle.”

“And where did you come from before the vales?” asked Finrod. “Do your tales say?”

A slight mumble from the crowd, talking among themselves. 

“You have to answer a question first.”

Finrod laughed, settling upon the grass and pulling Éomer down beside him. 

The next few hours passed in a whirl of questions asked and answers given. Much to Finrod’s delight the people of Rohan were quick to share their own tales and for several long minutes the allure of the elves was forgotten as they recounted the tales of their heroes to a fresh set of ears. 

Eorl the Young, founder of their people and well beloved. Mighty Helm Hammerhand who had smote the Dunlendings and whose horn was still said to blow (and had during the war) in their great keep. Of Théoden the beloved, who had charged at their head and died with all glory and honor. Of Éowyn, their lady most loved, the maiden who killed the Witch King and was hailed in both Rohan and Gondor. 

Stories of their ancestors they were quick to share as well. Grandfathers of many decades past, and old homes that they had passed down as bedtime stories. Songs of far wanderers, and ancient battles, and fearful women warriors and a people gone away. 

And the horses! Of Shadowfax, the most wonderful of his kind who had passed away but whose legend was told to each boy and girl before they could crawl. Of Snowmane, and Firefoot and each and every warsteed to ever cross the plain. 

And above all of Éomer. Éomer the Blessed and his wife and queen and their beloved prince. 

It wasn’t until the sun had began to set and the cry of animals waiting to be feed that the crowd began to move once more. Men and women suddenly aware of the passing of time and responsibilities that had been neglected. 

“And you have told us so little!” one cried, pointing at Finrod with a grin. “What of the elves?”

“Indeed, what of the elves?!” Finrod laughed, turning to Éomer. “If your king would allow as such I would tell you such things in song of my own. Since you have so richly provided me with your grand tales.”

Drawing a harp of gold and silver into his lap, Finrod closed his eyes, his fingers moving across the strings in small, graceful movements. At once a hush fell upon the crowd, every eye trained upon the elf. 

Songs of kings of old he played for them. Of battles and fights and dark lords and high elves. Of lands of beauty unseen even in their dreams and palaces that reached to the stars. In the common tongue he sang, and in Elvish. In the tongue of his father, his mother, and that of Middle Earth. 

Above them the moon rose and the stars came into view, bright lights to highlight the joy upon the faces below.

“How long are you planning on staying?” Éomer whispered as Finrod’s voice died away and the music rose into a melody only. “They will send out for every relative in the Mark before the night is over and every horse in Rohan will be bearing someone here.”

Finrod smiled, glancing over the crowd. In their midst he could almost see the faces of friends long past from the world. In their homes, cities and towns of old and upon their hills, trees that would never raise their head to the sun again. 

“As long as may be permitted me,” he spoke at last. “As long as they have stories to tell, and a mind to listen.”

And Finrod played on.

And his heart was glad.

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of inspiration taken from The Lord of the Rings Online, particularly the tapestries. 
> 
> https://lotro-wiki.com/index.php/Item:Tapestry_of_Folcred_and_Fastred
> 
> https://lotro-wiki.com/index.php/Item:Tapestry_of_Aldor_the_Old


End file.
